The Lemon Tree Stays

At nine o'clock, every light in the building goes out. The fridge stops. The fan stops. Elsbeth's phone has two percent left. She stands in the dark kitchen and hears the whole building groan.

"Roof!" shouts her brother from the hall. "Everyone is going to the roof!"

It is true. Doors open on every floor. People climb the stairs with candles and cold drinks. They talk in loud, happy voices. A power cut is a party when it happens to everyone.

Elsbeth takes her jacket and follows them. Her family moved here two years ago. She knows the stairs and the smell of every kitchen. She knows the broken light on the fourth floor. She does not really know the people.

The roof is wide and flat. It has a low wall and a water tank. A few plastic chairs stand around. Beyond the wall, the whole city is dark. Only a few cars move on the far road. Above them, there are more stars than Elsbeth ever sees.

"Wow," says her brother. For once, he has nothing else to say.

In the corner of the roof stands a lemon tree. It is not tall. It grows in a big clay pot, as wide as a bucket. A piece of white tape is on its side. On the tape, in black letters, are three words: DO NOT MOVE.

Elsbeth sees it every day. She never asks about it. Nobody does.

A boy sits next to the pot with his knees up. He is Sandor, from the sixth floor. He is her age, maybe a year older. They go to different schools. They say "hi" on the stairs, and that is all.

Tonight, Sandor does not say hi. He just looks at the tree.

A man in a loud shirt shouts across the roof. "We need space for the chairs!" He points at the corner. "Who wants to move that thing?"

"I will do it," says another man. He walks over and puts both hands on the pot.

"Please don't," says Sandor.

The man laughs. "It is only a plant, my friend."

"Please don't touch it." Sandor is on his feet now. His voice is not loud, but it is hard. "Not even a little."

The man looks at him. Then he shrugs and walks away. "Okay, okay. Keep your lemons," he says. Some people laugh. Then they talk about something else. The roof goes back to being a party.

Nobody asks Sandor why. The grown-ups go back to their chairs. Elsbeth thinks about it for a minute. Then she walks over to the corner.

"Is it okay if I sit here?" she asks.

"Yes, you can sit here," says Sandor.

She sits down on the warm stone. For a while, they say nothing. Below them, someone plays a guitar badly. A baby cries and then stops. The lemon tree smells strong and green, like soap.

"It never gives lemons," says Sandor at last. "Not many, anyway. Two last year. Both small."

"Then why can't anyone move it?"

"It is a rule from my mother." He almost smiles. "When you move a lemon tree, it gets angry. It drops its flowers. My mother says it can take a year to forgive you."

"That is a lot of feelings for a plant."

"Yes." He touches a leaf with one finger. "She brought it in a taxi when we came here. She held it on her knees the whole way. She chose this corner because the sun reaches it first."

Elsbeth watches his hand. She sees how carefully he touches the leaf. She remembers something else. Last Sunday, she saw three boxes on the stairs outside his door. They were big boxes for moving house. She did not think about them then.

She thinks about them now.

Everyone in the building sees the boxes. Nobody asks about them.

Her heart beats faster. It is a small question, but it feels big in her mouth.

"Sandor," she says. "Are you moving away?"

He does not answer right away. The night air moves across the roof. The leaves shake. He stares at the pot.

"I do not know," he says. His voice is small and honest. "My father says maybe. My mother says maybe, too. They talk in the kitchen at night with the door closed. I stand behind it and listen. Nobody tells me."

"And the tree?"

"That is the problem." He laughs, but it is not a happy laugh. "If we go, we cannot take it. It will hate that. So I water it every night. I check the leaves. It is stupid, I know."

"It is not stupid," says Elsbeth.

They are quiet again. Nearby, her brother tells a long story to a stranger. A candle burns low. The stars look very close.

"Thank you," says Sandor. "For asking. Nobody did."

Elsbeth does not know what to say. She picks a dry leaf from the ground. She turns it in her fingers. "Can I water it tomorrow?" she asks. "If you are busy."

"Maybe," says Sandor. But he does not say no.

Then, without any warning, the lights come back. The lamps in the streets blink and shine. The city below them wakes up all at once, street by street. On the roof, people clap and cheer.

In the sudden light, Elsbeth looks at the tape on the pot. The corner lifts a little. Under it, in a different pen, are two words. She reads them before Sandor puts his hand over them. STAYS HERE.